


Team Mates

by TheFlirtMeister



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: F/M, Formula 1, Formula 1 AU, Gen, Male-Female Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-25
Updated: 2015-10-25
Packaged: 2018-04-28 01:27:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5072650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheFlirtMeister/pseuds/TheFlirtMeister
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“No.” Gaby says when she finds out who her team mate is for the next season, “Absolutely not. I refuse.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Team Mates

“No.” Gaby says when she finds out who her team mate is for the next season, “Absolutely not. I  _refuse_.”

“You can’t refuse to have Illya as your team mate.” Waverly says, and Gaby curses him to hell, team boss or not. “It doesn’t that work that way.”

“I hate him- I despise him.” Gaby folds her arms, because there is no way in hell that she is working in the same team as Illya Kuryakin.

Illya, nicknamed “The Red Peril”, is a destructive wrecking machine on track. He used to drive for the Russians, and he was their best driver, mainly because everyone was so fucking terrified of him on track that they stayed out of his way. 

Gaby has had one run in with him, and it’s something that she’ll never forget, seconds away from a podium win when Illya’s car had shunted the back of hers. She’d spun off, losing out critical points, and everyone had to listen to her delightful swearing over team radio.

“I’ll switch teams if I have to be team mates with him.” Gaby threatens, and Waverly sighs. He’s her team boss, and her mentor, picking her from obscurity to drive for his new team. She’s the first female driver that the sport has ever known, and god knows she’s had enough shit from it. She doesn’t want a fucking Russian looking down on her as well.

“The contract is signed.” Waverly looks down at her, as so many people often do, “And no other team will give you a drive, you know that Teller.”

“Fuck you.” Gaby replies, “And fuck my drive.”

Waverly raises his eyebrow, “You’ll regret that.”

“No I won’t.” Gaby squeezes her fists, “Please, you can’t make me drive with him. I’ll take fucking Solo over him.”

“You are serious about this.” Waverly comments, because Solo and Gaby do not get along either. Like oil and water, they just don’t  _mix_.

Solo is the American. Smart-arsed, charming, and he drives with the fluidity of someone born to be a racing car driver. Gaby hates him because of his reputation, girls in every hotel room, lavish parties in summer break that Gaby tears up her invitations too, and the way he teases her whenever they’re in press conferences together, as if they’re  _friends._  

“Deadly.” Gaby threatens, and then glares when she realises Waverly is smirking. “It’s not funny!”

“Oh my dear,” Waverly smiles, shaking his head, “I can’t change anything.”

“Well you’re pretty useless aren’t you?” Gaby complains and Waverly laughs again

“Oh Teller,” He says fondly, “You are a delight to work with.”

….

They have a meeting all together in the team motorhome. Gaby wears jeans because she can, and her sunglasses that cover almost the whole of her face. Illya wears a weird hat and an old leather jacket, and Waverly looks at him distastefully, which Gaby takes as a positive note.

“Alright chaps,” Waverly says cheerfully, lacing his hands together, and Gaby looks over at Illya. She’s never seen a man glower before, but Illya is definitely doing that, as he sits hulking in the chair next to her. “Time to discuss things.”

“What is there to discuss?” Illya asks and Gaby almost agrees with him. She stops herself before she does though.

“Schedules.” Waverly replies, “We’re going to be testing the car all this week, we want to make sure that it fits the both of you, and that it’s god damn quicker than all the rest.”

“That’ll be a miracle.” Gaby murmurs, thinking of Alexander Vinciguerra in the Ferrari.

“Thank you Teller.” Waverly nods at her, “But I promise that we will have the quickest car on the grid, with the fastest engine, the best tyres, and driven by the two most brilliant drivers that F1 have seen.”

Gaby smirks at that. Illya glowers harder, clenching and unclenching his fists. Waverly ignores them both.

“Any questions?” He asks brightly, and Gaby raises her hand

“What’s our social media like?” She asks, and Waverly smiles at her participating

“Good question Teller. We’re running a twitter account for our company, we’re going down the humerous approach. We would also like if you, Teller, had an Instagram account. Show that you’re not just a good driver, but a fashionista too.”

Gaby tries not to cringe at the word fashionista, but continues. “What about Illya?”

“We don’t think that fits his image.” Waverly replies, and Illya leans back in his chair, still silent. “However, of course, there will be the usual PR for the both of you together, and I  _will_ expect the both of you together.”

“Solo doesn’t work with his team mate.” Gaby says, folding her arms, because she does not want to work with Illya.

“Solo is different to us.” Waverly replies, “And I hope that neither of you will try to recreate his lifestyle.”

“I won’t.” Gaby snorts and Illya tips back on his chair lightly

“Neither will I.” He adds, “Solo is not a good driver.”

“I’m glad you feel you can get the better of him.” Waverly tells him, “You may have to do some events with him though, pretend to be friendly and all that.”

“What if I don’t want to do that?” Gaby asks, and Illya nods

“What if I don’t want to work with Chop shop girl.” Illya says dismissively, and Gaby feels something twist in her stomach. She turns on her heel, and storms out of the meeting room, ignoring the way that tears are pricking at the corners of her eyes.

Chop Shop Girl. That stupid nickname is going to follow her to the ends of the earth, no matter how many podiums she ends up on, how many races she comes first in, how many championships she wins. Everyone is still going to remind her that she’s just a stupid little chop shop girl, who dreamed of something bigger of her grimy mechanic life.

“Teller!”

Someone is shouting her name and Gaby ignores it. She has no idea where she’s going, but she needs to go somewhere safe, somewhere she understands, somewhere away from the politics of Formula 1.

She ends up in the garage, pushing past mechanics who move aside for her anyway, and strides over to the car. It’s hornet yellow and Gaby traces her fingers over the lettering to calm herself. She is a Formula 1 Driver. She drives for MannOnkle. She is the first female Formula 1 Driver. She is good.

“Gaby.” A hand on her shoulder that Gaby goes to bat away, when she realises it isn’t Waverly.

She turns, looking straight at Illya’s stomach, and then tilts her head upwards to look at him. He’s looking at her curiously, as if she’s some interesting butterfly in a jaw, and his hands are fiddling with something on his wrist, a watch.

“What?” She snaps, far too sharply. “I’m busy.”

“I did not mean to offend you.” He replies, and his voice is barely out of breath despite the fact he ran after her

“Well you did.” She tells him, “I hate that nickname.”

“I’m sorry.” Illya says slowly, “I thought you liked that name.”

“Well I don’t.” Gaby goes to turn away and Illya catches hold of her arm gently

“Gaby.” He says softly, ducking his head, “I’m sorry.”

She realises that Illya is actually sorry, that he’s not saying this because Waverly has forced him too.

“Why did you call me it?” She asks

“Because I thought you didn’t mind it. And it suits you.”

“How does it suit me?” Gaby asks, and Illya thinks for a moment

“You have made Formula 1 your chop shop. You’re in control here, you know what you’re doing, the car responds to you.”

It’s probably the most that Illya has ever said to her, and Gaby blinks, slightly stunned. Illya is being nice to her. Illya thinks that she’s in control, and that the car works for her.

“Thank you.” She says, stumbling over her words, “Danke.”

“I understand about bad nicknames.” Illya suddenly says, “They call me Peril.” By ‘they’, Gaby knows he means Solo.

“Peril suits you.” Gaby tells him, “You do frighten all the other drivers, they practically swerve out of your way on track.”

Illya laughs. Illya Kuryakin laughs at something she says. Gaby grins without realising, staring up at him, and Illya smiles down at her, looking fond. Gaby opens her mouth to ask him something, when there’s a clattering from next to them, and Waverly strides up to them.

“Ah, there you are Ms Teller!” He says cheerfully, and Gaby and Illya step away from each other. “And Mr Kuryakin, wonderful. Are you two getting along finally?”

Gaby shrugs nonchalantly. Illya scowls at being interrupted. But something has changed. Something for the better.


End file.
